


Exorcising Space Demons

by T0wer0fStrength



Category: Bauhaus, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Accidental overdose, Angels and Demons, Arguments, Drug Use, Gen, Mild slash, implied misuse of prescription drugs, lots and lots of arguments, mild fluffiness towards the end, most of the piece is arguing in fact, very strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 10:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11576298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/T0wer0fStrength/pseuds/T0wer0fStrength
Summary: "An insufferable c**nt you are, Murphy; a medical professional you are not."After an electrifying gig, the band are in high spirits, all with the exception of Daniel, who, sick of being gobbed at, outright refuses to play an encore. Tension and fan disappointment ensues, with his seemingly unshakeable rotten mood wearing the band and the roadies' patience thin. In an attempt to restore Daniel's usual vigour, Peter slips him a bag of white powder, with disastrous consequences. Too paranoid to ring for help, Peter takes it upon himself to look after his old school pal through the night, though it may be that something more sinister was at work that evening.





	Exorcising Space Demons

**Author's Note:**

> The following short story is, obviously, a work of fiction. Though a couple aspects are based on events band members have detailed in interviews and memoirs, the rest is entirely fictional and should be treated as such. I mean no disrespect to the (ex-)members of Bauhaus and this began as a writing practise for a novel-length original piece I have been working on, but I feel it turned out decently enough to upload it here. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my beta readers for the suggestions, improvements and motivation. And with that out of the way we shall begin the actual work.

In a crescendo of feedback noise and a final scream into the microphone, the guitar was slung off his shoulder and thrown to the floor. Then, sweat and spittle-drenched, he peered into the abundance of faces below. Some white-powder, red lipsticked, eyebrows up to their temples, others, cropped hair, t-shirt and jeans types. His vocalist, whose shirt had been abandoned in the wings, blew kisses to the beautiful fans- fools at his fingertips- who were pogoing up and down, some, further back, threatening to tear off the theatre's seats in the dregs of their waning energy. This was until the ringing in his ears grew louder and louder, soon drowning out all else, and then...silence. Why did he now hear only silence? He took a few steps forward, took a permanent marker from a girl's outstretched hand and tentatively leant closer to her. She could have been no older than fifteen, her mousy brown hair teased high, haloing a ruddy face, black eyeliner caking her eyelids and lips, which moved in shapes which may have resembled “I love you, Danny Ash!” and he squinted, forced a smile and left a shaky signature on her arm as he felt suddenly self-conscious. He scanned the crowd once again. How strange it was to see so many faces, or should he say haircuts, this in itself, but also to hear nothing. He couldn't have gone deaf, could he? It doesn't happen so quickly, after all, and he was still a young man, twenty-five in July. No. Oh, how he now hankered after something strong to drink, or to smoke. A shudder ran down his neck and towards his legs as his head swam, a blinding white light filling his eyes. A plentiful _thump_ _o_ n the back snapped him out, and all of a sudden, he found himself in a dressing room. One like every other, with muffled cries of, “more! More! More! More! Encore! Encore!”

“Fuck, Danny, that was fantastic! Listen! Listen to that crowd!” The singer told him, through several gulps of water.

“Are we doing an encore then?” The drummer, with the boyish face, was doing his best to hide a smile.

“Oh, absolutely.” Grinned the bassist, long fingers locked and bony arms outstretched. “Pete?”

“Yes, Dave. We _have_ to do an encore.” The singer clapped his hands and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Completely, we can't not. Listen to that crowd, too. If we don't do one, there'll be a riot.” He began a drunken gabble. “We didn't do Entries. They wanna hear Entries. And-and maybe we can throw in T-Telegram Sam. I'm really feeling that one...oh, um... perhaps... an Iggy cover? Let's s-spoil them, yes, come on, we're going back on. Danny?”

Daniel stared at the ground. He was already retrieving his coat from the back of a wooden chair.

“Danny? C'mon, then. Can't you hear them?”

“We're not doing an encore.” He spoke at last. “Fuck 'em.”

“Oh, Dan...come on! Pete's right.” The young one reached for a towel and swept it across his forehead.

“I said fuck 'em, Kev. Fuck 'em. Let 'em riot. Do I look like I care?” He snatched the towel from him and rubbed down his face and arms vigorously. 

“What, and leave a wonderful audience disappoi-”

“And need to pay the venue however much in damage costs? I'd rather not. _Beggars_ would completely s-slaughter us! Just one more number, Dan.” Peter, doing his best to shake off his stammer, stood close and placed both his hands on tense shoulders. “Please?”

Daniel shook Peter's hands off, and turned to look up into the eyes of the taller gentleman. “Fuck 'em. ” He plucked a cigarette from the pocket of his trousers and placed it between his painted lips. “I'm spent. Wonderful audience? You're not the ones getting gobbed at! It's fucking disgusting. I'm not putting up with it.”

A resounding groan filled the room.

“Guess we're packing up.” David sighed.

“Packing up!” Parroted Daniel, throwing a gesture to their roadies, before making a beeline for the stage door.

“Come on, let's clear out.”

 

Daniel slumped in the passenger seat of the van, wrapped in his heavy wool coat despite the sweat which still lingered and plastered his hair to his face. As he reached to push _play_ on the tape player, he noticed his cigarette had become a single ash, and rolled down the window a crack, throwing the ghastly thing out. The tape player clicked and hissed. The opening notes rang out. The Cure's _A Forest_. The same as always. There was only one compilation tape they'd brought with them, many of the rest they'd stayed up many a night creating now stowed away in Ford Cortina or Morris Minor glove boxes back in Northampton, since forgotten about. Through the van's speakers, it sounded as if the tape were playing through a coffee tin. He reached underneath the seat for a now-warm can of something cold, cracked it open, and took a sip from it. The doors swung open, and the band and entourage scrambled over, followed by a hoard of equipment. “Could you help us out, Dan?” Kevin said, hauling two guitars and an amplifier.

“Yeah, come on! pull your weight!” David nodded in agreement, knocking on the windscreen.

“I'm a musician, not a bloody roadie.” Daniel kicked his legs out underneath him and dragged his sleeve across his mouth, removing his lipstick. “Not my job.”

“It's not our job either!” David snorted, hurriedly buckling up a guitar case. “Anyone seen His Majesty?”

“Slunk off to sign some kid's Bauhaus t-shirt.” a blond roadie said as he lugged quarter of a drum set in front of him. “Wouldn't be surprised if he comes back with half of Columbia up his nose, though,” he hauled the drums into the van. “Or his bum.”

His Royal Highness did return approximately half a minute later, now fully dressed in a black-knit jumper which swamped his form.

"You know, you can't blame an entire audience for the actions of a few dickheads. I'd have sorted them out!" Peter said through the opened window, brushing a cobweb from the wing mirror.

As a team effort, the last of the equipment was placed in the back of the van, followed by David and Peter, two roadies, and the usual driver, who had succumbed to a blinding migraine and opted to sleep on the way to the hotel, or at least make an attempt to. Driving tonight would be Kevin, who was the least inebriated of the group, though still slightly so, and he clamoured in, spent a frustratingly long time adjusting the seat, fired up the engine and set the pedals, though he did not release the handbrake and instead stared through the windscreen, aghast. There were black-clad kids knocking on the van's windows, climbing onto the roof. Jumping. Shouting.

“Told you we should've done an encore, Daniel!"

The guitarist shrugged his shoulders and took another sip, before opening the glove box and producing a bottle of cognac, pouring a helping into the can.

“The roof should cave in at this rate!” Kevin eased the handbrake and the van crept forward. “Someone ask them to move.”

“Get down, you lot.” Said a roadie through gritted teeth, staring up at the roof of the van, which was shaking precariously. “Drive!”

Kevin chewed his bottom lip, and could have sworn he heard an “oh, because that'll fucking shift 'em, won't it? Fucking stupid, the lot of you.” remark, likely from the gentleman in the passenger seat. He eased the handbrake and allowed the van to creep forwards, and at this, the kids began to disperse.

“Thank god for that!” Peter smiled, sitting up. Though he spoke too soon, and as Kevin began to drive, an almighty impact hit the far side. The kids were now throwing things, everything they could: lit cigarettes; beer bottles; wine bottles; themselves.

“Bloody hell....” David leant himself up against the side of the van and picked up a thin paperback volume he had discarded earlier. “Get us out of here-”

“If you'd just played one mor-”

“Ta very much, Dani-.”

“You lot definitely have some passionate fans-”

“-we wouldn't be in this mess-”

“-can't tell if they love you or hate you-”

“-now look at this, what a fucking mess-”

“-you should be very proud of yourself-”

“-such a fucking diva-”

“-just one cunting encore-”

“Everyone, everyone,calm down!”

“SHUT UP, KEVIN!”

“You can stick your fucking encore up your arse, all of you! Fuck you!” Daniel reached for the tape player and turned the volume up all the way, and nobody spoke another word as the van rolled out of the car park and onto the road, narrowly avoiding several kids. The usual driver had assumed the fetal position and had his coat zipped over his ears. Peter mouthed _what's with him?_ to a roadie, who made a _confused_ gesture. _Sharing a room with him later._ Peter mimed tying a noose around his neck, and the roadie weakly laughed. Outside street lights played about the boys, who avoided each others' eyes.

 

The van lurched over a speed bump.

“Christ, _second_ , ya loony. Slow down!” Daniel grumbled as half the contents of his Carlsberg and cognac concoction spilled over his coat and onto the floor. “Oh, look! For fuck's sake, Kevin!”

“Sorry, Dan...” Kevin gripped the steering wheel tight with his right hand as he shifted gears.

Then a stern voice “Hey, man, what's gotten into you tonight?” David knitted his brows through the dark. Daniel simply huffed in response.

“Hey. You know no-one talks to him like that, without having to deal with me later.”

Kevin's cheeks flushed red.

“Dealing with you, Dave?” The passenger scoffed. “You're built like a runner bean. You're really not the best big brother he could hope for, are you? Not with your shoulders!”

A look of utter disgust, and then resignation shot across David's face as he buried his face back into the book, reading a fragment of a line or so whenever a flash of light passed the page.

Peter shuffled towards the front seats, looked from side to side, and tapped Daniel on the shoulder. He turned down the volume on the tape player, which now blared a David Bowie song. “What?”

“Hold out your hand.”

Peter produced a small plastic bag of white powder from his pocket, clamped his hand upon Daniel's, and told him, his tone hushed, “don't know if you want this. Got given it on my way out. Fancy staying up and checking out the nightlife?” He grinned, tapped his lips with his index finger, then scurried back to his suitcase, sat down and began to make an origami dove out of a napkin he'd stolen from a fast food restaurant the day before.

Daniel made a face; he wasn't entirely sure if it was cocaine, or some new designer drug, but slid the unspecified substance into his coat.

The tape skipped in the player and Kevin fast-forwarded until it turned over. Then began a dub reggae number, one by Mikey Dread, which David and Kevin had introduced Daniel to late on one Friday afternoon three years previous.

“This must be wicked,” He had remarked on that afternoon, shaking his head, looking to the cover of _African Anthem_ propped up next to the turntable. “Naughty.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It sounds so fuckin' good. It must be. Nothing so good is pure. Something that is so nice to listen to, must be evil, and, I-it's wonderful.” He grinned and leant his chin on his hand. “It's wonderful”

“Bloody Catholic guilt be damned!” David emerged from the kitchen with a tray of tea.

“Oy, shush, I'm trying to listen!” Daniel had laughed, and so they sat, and didn't speak until the album played out.

Silent Daniel remained now, too, staring blankly through the windscreen. Kevin was smiling and nodding his head along with the beat. He went to give his friend's shoulder a playful shake, a move to which he received an icy glare.

“Seriously, what's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” Daniel rolled down the window. “Tired.”

One of the roadies piped up. “Hey Kev, could you pas'us a beer?”

“Man, I'm driving!” Kevin sounded almost impressed.

Daniel leant under the seat and tossed a can behind him, still taking a swig from his own. It bounced off the back door and landed on the floor with a metallic _clang_.

“No, you're, you're nearly-” Kevin pursed his lips.

David cut in, “Acting like _someone else_ we know?”

There was a resounding nod from Kevin and the roadies.

Peter stood up and made a show of dropping the napkin he had been folding onto the floor of the van. “Oh yes, let's all gang up on Peter!”

“Stop being so paranoid.”

Venom shot across Peter's eyes. “Fuck you, David. I know full well what you lot talk about, when-when I'm not there to hear it.” He adopted a mocking tone, “'he's so paranoid', 'he can't take a joke,' 'he fancies himself', 'he needs to be sorted out'. Kevin, stop the van!”

“Pete, no, you-”

Kevin covered the brake and clutch, considering for a moment. “Can we maybe not argue? Not again?”

“Kevin, stop the van. I'm walking.”

“I'm so sick of you lot, you-you lot of fucking reprobates!” Daniel snapped, and brought up his left leg and kicked the glove box once. Twice. Thrice. “I'm off home tomorrow, yeah. Tour's off.”

“Dan-”

“No, I'm sick of the sight of you.”

“Can we maybe try and stay away from each others’ throats for five minutes?” Kevin was hunched over the steering wheel as they pulled into the hotel. He pulled himself back and parked up, before covering his face with his hands and sighing hard. “Right. We're not leaving this van until you all apologise to each other. I will, too.”

There was a collective mumble as Kevin turned the key.

“Much better.”

“Hey, Dan!” Said a roadie as they left and crossed the pitch-black car park, cold air biting at their faces. “A woman's on trial for beating her husband with his guitar collection. Judge says, 'First offender?' she says, “no, first a Gibson. Then a Fender!'”

A combined laugh and groan emerged from the others, though Daniel didn't submit, his face remaining in a stone scowl. They stormed into the lobby in a blur of laughter, lingering alcohol and pointed boots.

“I once bought a pair of shoes from a drug dealer.” Said David, his voice deadpan. “I don't know what he laced them with, but I was tripping all day.” Another bout of laughter, though Daniel simply clenched his fists within his pockets.

“I was thinking I might have an open casket funeral.” Peter mused. “Remains to be seen!”

“It'll be all your remains to be seen if you carry on with these jokes.” Grumbled Daniel as they squeezed into the lift and up to the third floor, all long lanky arms and legs and big coats and jumpers, luggage and laughter from all except for the guitarist. The four musicians split into pairs, heading to what would be their homes for the night. Peter and Daniel had drawn the short straw and were required to share a double room.

“G'night, then, you two. No fighting, okay?” Kevin shot a look at Daniel.

“Yeah,” David added. “If we find Peter battered to death with a hairdryer, or anything for that matter, there'll be consequences.”

The roadies continued down the hallway, one shooting a dramatic wave towards the band.

“Hey, don't give him ideas!”

Daniel scuffed his boot on the carpet and toed the skirting board, watching Peter dig through his wallet. “Could you take any longer finding that fucking key?” As soon as David and Kevin had disappeared into their lodging, the door closed behind them, he grabbed Peter by the throat and pushed him hard against the wall. “Listen, blue eyes. You know what your problem is? You're just going along with it. It's us that do all the work. It's us that toured all the nasty clubs and pubs while you were just sitting in your bedroom fantasising about David Bowie. You need to get off your high horse and appreciate what we've done for you.” His grip on the neck intensified. “Give that here. I'll get it.”

Peter, quietly terrified, handed the wallet to him as he began to rummage through. Driving Licence, Spare money, one, two, three blister packs of Valium, and at last, the key. He took out the key, and a pound note, and threw the wallet back to Peter. “What're the pills for?” He asked sternly, folding his arms.

“N-n-nothing bad, I s-s-swear. They help me sleep. You know I get anxious s-sometimes, too.”

Daniel tutted. “And you never offer me any? How considerate.”

“And as a side note,” Peter almost squeaked. “I didn't fantasise about David Bowie. I fantasised about being him.”

Once the door had been unlocked and the light switched on, Daniel abandoned his suitcase in the entryway.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I must powder my nose.” He said without a hint of irony, and slipped into the en-suite.

“Save me a little!” Peter called as the door closed. The room was almost overbearingly white, a welcome contrast from the gaudy orange-and-brown decorations of most of the cheap hotels they visited, most of which rolled into a singular place in their minds. Peter took a moment to reflect on the places that'd housed their overnight beds over the last three years: Bed-and-Breakfast hotels run by well-meaning middle-aged women; youth hostels; David's Ford Cortina; Daniel's Ford Cortina; A Windmill; and a New York hotel, complete with cockroaches and Iggy Pop. This, so far, was right up there with the windmill and the hotel where they'd met Iggy. At least here, his bed wouldn't be full of hay and mouse droppings, or cockroaches, or, sadly, Iggy Pop. He opened his suitcase and lay out a change of clothes on the bed, left his wallet on the bedside table and sat down on the bed and continued with his origami, whistling to himself an old Irish song.

Usually, he'd have heard one or two calls of “Stop whistling that crap!”, though not tonight. Peter thought this was slightly odd, though it was not untoward, considering Daniel's other behaviour that night.

The guitarist lay out a thick line of white powder on the sink using a square of card and took the pound note from his pocket. He inhaled deeply. A shudder ran through his body as he sniffed and rubbed his nose, as his eyes rolled back and his mouth formed almost a smile. He shook off his coat and tossed it aside, before he took a moment to look up into the mirror. There seemed something wrong with his eyes. Not within his eyes, but from behind. They were dull, dead, sunken into the sockets. He pursed his lips and leaned closer. His pupils were flat in the iris, lacking any shine or expression except perhaps severe boredom. Then he retrieved his coat and fetched some make-up remover and some cotton wool, and began to remove his stage make-up. Whilst swabbing some of the foundation around his nose, an energy surged through him. A bad energy. One he couldn't place.

Puzzled, he looked at the swab in his hand. It was completely blood-soaked. He then looked down, to the floor, to his coat, to the sink, and realised his nose was bleeding. In fact, it had been bleeding the entire time.

 

“Oh, Christ...fuck...”

 

Pain shot across his limbs. His legs buckled and he grappled the sink. Looking into the mirror again, the blood rolled down into his mouth and he could see red. He could taste red. He clasped his hands over his ears. He could hear red.

 

“Fuck, no...no...”

 

Now on his knees he had begun to shake, so hard his vision blurred and twisted, and had broken out in a profuse cold sweat, which stuck his bloodstained shirt to his skin. He doubled over, and crinkled his nose at the acrid taste which was rushing up from the back of his throat and onto the floor. He threw his head back as the first spasm tore through his body. The pain spread to his mouth as he gritted his teeth hard to keep from yelling aloud. Tears splashed his hands and face, now paper-white, turning a light shade of green. Then came a knock at the door.

“Is everything alright in there, Danny?” Peter asked, definitely concerned.

“Yeah, uh...no...yeah, maybe don't come in. D-don't sweat it.” His teeth chattered between words.“I'll be alright in a minute; leave it.” He managed to remove his shirt, his jewellery remaining, and he knelt on the floor, arms crossing his chest, nails digging hard into the sides of his neck.

“I can't hear you. Come closer.”

He dragged himself towards the door, legs curled underneath him like a rag doll's. He felt like a rag doll, one that had its stomach slashed with a pen knife and had its stuffing removed by an assault of clumsy, chubby child's fingers. “I-It's sorted, Pete. Just- oh, god...”

“You're not in the middle of a f-fucking overdose, are you? Are you?”

Daniel hauled himself up and raised the latch, panting and choking as Peter flung open the door. He looked down and clamped his hand over his mouth.

“That stuff you-” Daniel took a sharp breath, looking up to see several Peters. He wasn't sure which was the real vocalist. “That stuff you gave me. It wasn't good, like, it's bad, really bad, like it's not coke at all.”

He leant across the bathroom and grabbed a generous wad of tissue, holding it under his bandmate's streaming nose and lifting him to his feet, before his legs gave way a second time. “Oh, gosh, for fuck's sake, Daniel...”

“Oh, don't you start.”

Peter grabbed him under the arms, dragged him towards the bed and hoisted him on “What happened? D-did you take too much?”

“I-I've told you. I must have. I don't know how. I didn't take much. It must be really powerful.” He tensed as a second spasm, followed by an intense shooting pain, darted up his back. “And not in a good way.”

“W-was the reaction instant? I-I don't see how that's possible. Surely you've got to metabolise it first? I-”

Daniel used a last ounce of strength to reach up and slap the side of Peter's arm. “Stop thinking, you cunt, and do something! I could be fuckin' dying down here!” His voice was weakened and hoarse though firmer than Peter had ever heard it before, as if somebody were speaking for him. He continued, “and don't lay me on my back. D'you want me to choke?”

Peter contorted the other man's poor, limp form into what he hoped was the recovery position, he couldn't remember it exactly, before hauling himself over him and sitting with his legs crossed on the other side of the bed.

“The bloke who gave it to me...umm...uhh...the dealer lied about what it was? S-supplier? Him? Oh, I don't know. S-someone's tried to kill me, Dan!” He clutched a pillow to his chest, knees brushing his chin.

“Oh, me, me, me! Always about you, isn't it? Because the entire world operates in your interest, doesn't it, golden boy?” Daniel was choking up the taste of salty tears and blood along with his words. “Ring for a fucking ambulance or something, like, what are you doing?”

“What, and get interrogated by a bunch of paramedics? They'll see all the, the-” he gestured broadly towards the bathroom, “we'll get thrown in prison, for sure. Besides, I'm here. You'll be fine, you're just fading a little.” He mopped around Daniel's still-bloody nose.

“An insufferable cunt you are, Murphy; a medical professional you are not. I hope _you_ get chucked in prison for your responsibility for my death.” His limbs convulsed once more. His eyes rolled back. His breathing quickened and shallowed. His entire body rocked to and fro with each sharp breath.

“Danny? Oh, fuck...” Peter tapped Daniel's shoulder, which shook violently at his touch. He lurched sideways onto his back. Peter hastily forced his limbs back into their twisted mock-recovery position. Spittle trickled out of one side of his open mouth, mingling with his blood and running onto the crisp white pillow. Peter daubed at this gingerly and gave Daniel's hair a few awkward strokes. “Alright...erm...” He looked to the telephone on the bedside table and then back through the open bathroom door. His breathing too, was now shallow and fast, as Daniel's unconscious form writhed beside him, emitting a low grunting sound, like one of those poor souls Peter once saw on late night television, one of those horror films. As he watched this unfold, he felt something all too familiar. Guilt. Guilt more intense than he'd ever felt. Though, it wasn't like Peter to admit this. He shook his head a few times in an attempt to clear his thoughts, before turning back to his old school friend, and felt another pit in his stomach.

“S-stay there.” He said to Daniel, in a vague hope he would respond, as he leant across to reach for his wallet and produced a packet of Valium. Then he picked up a teacup and scurried to the bathroom to fill it with water, before returning to the bed and waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

 

Peter checked the bedside clock. It had been only three minutes, though it felt to be an hour. Daniel's eyes drifted open, wide, and then darted around their sockets. He whimpered.

“Shhh..shhhshh...I'm here, Danny, I'm here.” He pressed a finger to the other man's lips and cupped his chin, before shuffling closer and running his hand up and down the small of his back. “You're gonna be alright.”

Daniel did not respond, though knitted his brows. Then warm breath bristled his ear.

“Are you there?”

He brought his trembling hands to his eyes, arms feeling like lead. He weakly spoke, “what happened?”

Peter lay down on his side to face him. “Hello, Danny.” His voice took on a breathy quality, accent slipping vaguely into an Irish lilt. “You just woke up, you had a fit. Something to do with the drugs I gave you I think. Don't worry, now; you were only out for a couple of minutes.”

Daniel's chest was still lurching, his voice hoarse. “Is that -” another cough, “P-Peter? Murphy?”

“Yes, it's me, dear. How are you feeling?”

He hesitated for a moment. “You-you know when you've been beaten up, really knocked about? Except my heart's beating so fast it might go...” He made an attempt to sit up, and fell back down onto the bed. “oh god, why is this room so white? Am I dead?” He promptly burst into tears. “I'm not ready! No!”

“No, no, you're alive, Danny, very much alive. C-can you sit up for me?” Peter grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the bedside table and dried Daniel's tears as he steadied him upright, holding him with one arm as if he would crumble to dust if he let go. He then popped out a couple of tablets and held them under the other man's nose. “C-can you take these for me? It's only a m-mild tranquilliser. You need it.”

Daniel shot a blank look at Peter, who seemed to be fading in and out of his sight, along with the entire room. “I'm absolutely going to take drugs off the bloke that almost killed me only a matter of minutes ago, aren't I?”

“No, please. I don't want you overdosing on me. We can't have that. You can't have that. _I_ can't have that. The band can't have that.”

Daniel screwed up his nose but placed the pills in his mouth anyhow, allowing Peter to bring the teacup of water to his lips.

“Life's about balance.” Peter nodded, a stern look across his eyes and mouth. “Drink. They should kick in in about half an hour.” He then popped out two more, hesitated, and placed them aside. “Get some rest.”

“Are you going out, then?” Daniel asked as Peter lay him back down.

“No, I'm staying here,” He kicked off his boots and they dramatically flew across the room. “with you. Do you want any help undressing?”

Daniel almost laughed.“Ooh la la.”

“No, I mean-” Peter's face flushed. “Like with taking off your shoes or anything? I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I'd appreciate it, I mean, as I'm a complete state right now. As I always am.”

Peter nodded and removed Daniel's boots, bracing his leg with a skinny arm. “See. That's more like my Danny, there!” A grin briefly passed his lips. “You've still got blood all down your chest, you know. It's quite fetching. It should be your look.” There was a heavy silence then, until he stood up and said, “would you like a cup of tea, Danny? I think you need some sugar.”

Daniel shook his head, and Peter returned to his side with a cotton swab and a bottle of make-up remover. “Fair enough. You missed a lot of your foundation. “I don't want you getting bad skin.” He smoothed the swab around Daniel's closed eyes, his forehead and his cheekbones, before applying a thin layer of moisturiser to his face. “There you are. Let's take these off, and those earrings out, too. You can't be comfortable.” He removed Daniel's jewellery from his arms, chest and ears, and placed them in a careful pile on the bedside cabinet. Then he forced a smile, before breaking, swiping in futility at the blood on his chest. “Oh, god, Danny.”“This is all my fault. I'm so sorry.”

Daniel told him, reaching with a weak limb to caress a sharp cheekbone, “don't blame yourself, alright?”

 

Neither of them spoke for a while. They lay next to each other on the bed, far apart, Peter keeping a watchful eye on his guitarist as he silently wept, eyes closed. Concern and pain were etched across his face. After a while, Daniel sniffed through watery eyes. “Peter...will you hold me?"

Peter's expression softened. He held out his arms.

They lay face-to-face, spindly legs intertwined in a plait of leggings and leather. Many an hour they'd held each other just like this before, in dingy B&Bs, in a teenage bedroom at Peter's mum's place, or under a tartan blanket on the settee in the living room of a terraced house with no central heating back in Northampton, until it got so dark and cold they had no choice but to move, or until David came home and they had to scramble to look inconspicuous. It wasn't that they were ashamed, more that they preferred a private moment together, just the two of them. More often, it was giggles and bumping foreheads as opposed to intimacy, though there had been several more tender moments they'd shared, lost in each others’ eyes until they saw stars and drifted into entrancement. They were never lovers, though there had been a couple of occasions, fuelled by cheap beer and hashish, where they'd undressed each other, ran a bony hand along the other's skinny body, though these encounters more than once culminated in the both of them lying on the floor in fits of laughter. Their affection went beyond romantic or sexual fixation. It was purely their own.

"I'm still foggy and, oh god, I'm frightened...really frightened....”

"You're with me. You're alright."

Danny ran his hands up and down Peter's sides, tracing his waist and hips underneath his thick jumper. “I behaved like such a cunt earlier, darling. I'm sorry.”

“It's alright, Danny. I know it gets hard on the road sometimes. They can be pretty hard to work with sometimes.”

Daniel sniggered. “You mean you and Dave can be hard to work with.”

Peter pursed his lips. “Yeah.” He snuggled closer to Daniel, rubbing his nose against his. “I've missed this.”

“So have I.” The tears resumed.

Peter tightened his hold with one arm, and reached for Daniel's hand with the other, taking it in his own and locking their fingers together. “Shh...don't cry, don't cry. 'Else I'll cry. No more arguing tomorrow. Not with me, not with you, not with Kevin, not with David. I promise. Do you?”

“I promise.” He purred, squeezing Peter's hand. “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“When we were onstage. Just behind the stage lights. A man's face. Peter, you-you don't think it was some sort of...” he swallowed hard. “demon?”

“Where are you going with this?” Peter brushed a lock of hair from Daniel's face.

“I think it got me. I think-”

“It possessed you?”

He nodded.

“Oh, I don't know about that. You were only _slightly_ more cuntish than usual. Should see you after shows sometimes! Talk about a mardy arse.”

Daniel gave Peter's nose a lazy swat with his hand and chuckled. “Shush, you.” He nuzzled into the singer's neck.

“Maybe it got into you before the show. You played amazingly. I mean, you play amazingly all the time, but-”

“It couldn't have been, though. It's ridiculous. I'm just a loony, aren't I?”

“No, I believe you. The only thing is,”

They both spoke at the same time,“where did it go?”

Daniel then began to laugh. “Peter, you know how we call some of our audience androgynous space demons, like?”

“You're not saying-” Peter was curling his fingers in Daniel's hair.

“No, no, I'm just saying it's a coincidence isn't it? Maybe it was just the energy from the audience, maybe they drained me, rather than vice versa.”

“It's an interesting thought, I suppose...” Peter mused as Daniel moved to gaze up at him, giving him puppy-dog eyes. He gave a quiet laugh. “What?”

“Nothing, just...your eyes are so beautiful.” Daniel sighed. “You're an angel.”

“I see that Valium's kicked in.” Peter planted a kiss on the hollow of Daniel's cheek.

His eyes were drifting closed now. “Mhm...Peter?”

“Yes, Danny?” His lips brushed his cheekbone.

“You know, since we met at school, all those years ago...I knew I really liked something about you. I still don't know what it was. It's not like I fancy you or anything like that, but, I think, I lo-”

Peter watched as his friend succumbed to the undercurrent of sleep, and he pulled the now-crumpled origami dove, a fragment of an angel's garland, out of his trouser pocket, tucked it into Daniel's nest of sweat-dampened curls, and whispered into his ear, “I love you too."

 


End file.
